


Serendipity

by lazarusthefirst



Series: Trope bingo [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (pre-story), Alternate Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Ghost!Derek, Humour, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Supernatural Elements, some fluff?, weird ghost stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 19:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2518937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarusthefirst/pseuds/lazarusthefirst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Through no real fault of his own (debatable), Stiles is tasked with helping to clear out the Hale house before it's due to be demolished. What he doesn't realise is that one of its old inhabitants is still hanging around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serendipity

**Author's Note:**

> Trope: there are ghosts. This was the second fic I wrote for this challenge, but I felt like the ghost logic was a little iffy, so I held off until I could do some editing. It's still not 100% solid, but it's good enough for the story that's in it, I think. 
> 
> (This was nearly called "Should I Stay or Should I Go", but even I'm not that immature)

It wasn’t Stiles’s first time vandalising one of Beacon Hills’ derelict buildings with Scott, but it was his first time getting caught.

‘Stiles, seriously,’ Parrish said with a pained expression, training his flashlight on two very guilty faces. ‘I can’t ignore this one. You’re gonna have to come with me, both of you.’

Ok, so maybe it wasn’t his first time getting caught either. But Parrish usually preferred to save the Sheriff an aneurysm by looking the other way when Stiles and Scott got itchy fingers and wanted to tag something. Totally harmless. Although they were getting a bit old for it.

‘You’re twenty one!’ the sheriff exclaimed, slamming his hand on the desk. ‘You’re a journalism major! Please don’t tell me this is about making a political statement.’

Stiles jerked his hand irritably against the handcuffs (which were absolutely just for show and meant to terrify him, which they didn’t) and wriggled around uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Dad, the ratio of abandoned properties in Beacon Hills versus actual development is, like, 5:1. And why isn’t Scott in handcuffs? Is he even here?’

‘First time offender,’ grumbled Sheriff, frowning deeply at him. ‘We let him go. You’re the one in trouble here, Stiles.’

‘First time - !’ Stiles spluttered, straining against the handcuffs. ‘He is not.’

‘Stop struggling, you’re going to hurt yourself.’

‘Are you trying to make an example of me to scare the new deputies?’

‘Stiles.’ The sheriff rubbed a hand tired over his face, sighing. Stiles did his best to stop thrashing, sliding down slightly in his seat.

‘Am I going to jail?’

His father laughed tiredly. ‘No, though I am tempted to let you spend a night in the cells, just to give myself a break.’

Stiles bit his lip. ‘Ok, that sounds like something I wouldn’t be very interested in at all. So, option number two?’

The sheriff leaned back in his chair, eyeing him thoughtfully.

‘Says here Parrish caught you at the Hale house,’ he said, gesturing at the paperwork on his desk. ‘It’s due to be demolished.’

‘Yeah, about time,’ muttered Stiles, but snapped his mouth shut at the glare he received.

‘Well, it’s a big job,’ the sheriff continued. ‘There’s a lot of stuff in there that needs to be assessed and valued to see if it can be sold or recycled before they can tear down the building itself.’

Stiles didn’t like where this was going.

‘You’re gonna help out. Every day, for the next two weeks, until it’s done.’

‘Will I be getting paid?’ asked Stiles hopefully. The look he got in response was not favourable.

‘Community service,’ mused Stiles, sitting back in his chair. ‘Why do I feel like this is going to suck?’

The sheriff flipped idly through the pages of Parrish’s report. ‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll find something to interest you. Or not. It really doesn’t concern me too much. Anyways, I think it’s time for lunch.’

‘Great,’ Stiles enthused, sitting up and extending his handcuffed arm as far as it could go. ‘Can we get take out? Or burritos? Or - hey dad, where are you going? Dad?’

Stiles couldn't really see how this punishment was supposed to teach him anything. He'd been trying to highlight the link between growing house prices and the lack of available land due to too many abandoned and derelict buildings in beacon hills by creating a constructive and tasteful new aesthetic on the side of the huge old manor house.

“I don’t see how a smelly hedgehog is tasteful,’ said Scott doubtfully on the phone that night. ‘I’m still not sure why you went with that one.’

Stiles sighed dramatically, throwing himself back on his bed. ‘It wasn’t a hedgehog, it was a wolf. Scott I’m not that bad. And those were flames, thank you. It was supposed to symbolise the wolves at the door, you know, hungry corporations trying to buy up all that unused property instead of it being rebuilt for homes or public spaces.’

‘But why the flames?’

Stiles chewed his lip. ‘Uh, I can’t really remember. Maybe I was trying to make a point about how we should burn all the abandoned buildings to the ground and start again? I had a lot of tequila, Scott.’

‘Yeah you did. Maybe the fact that it was the Hale building reminded you of fire,’ Scott suggested.

‘I guess.’ The fire was still talked about fairly frequently in Beacon Hills. The Hale family, a reclusive, rich family from New York, who generously contributed to Beacon Hills (and to projects like the building society) had all perished in a fire that consumed most of their house in the middle of a winter’s night, almost two years ago now. Stiles’s dad had worked overtime for months, finally arresting a woman named Kate Argent, whose family had long since moved away from Beacon Hills. The Gazette had run four articles on the house and what was to be done with it, advocating that it be turned into a memorial, or a school, or a clinic. But still, the house still remained standing, unused, and wasting a whole lot of space that now legally belonged to Beacon Hills. The Hales had, of course, left everything to the town.

‘What time do you have to be there in the morning?'

Stiles stretched his groan out for a full thirty seconds before answering, ‘Seven thirty.’

Scott whistled sympathetically on the other end. ‘Well, uh, I could pick you up afterwards? We could go for lunch.’

‘I’m gonna be there until at least six.’

‘Dinner then?’

Stiles perked up.’ You’re paying.’

‘Well, yeah.’

He pretended to mull it over. ‘Fine,’ he decided. ‘And I want desert.’

Scott laughed. ‘Anything you want, buddy. I owe you big for taking the fall with your dad.’

Stiles felt only mildly guilty about the fact that he had done no such thing. Free food was free food.

Seven thirty was brutal. Seven thirty was physically painful. Stiles felt ill as he stood in front of the foreman, who spent twenty minutes lecturing him about safety and responsibility and possible criminal charges, before shoving a clipboard and laminated sheet into his hands and sending him off to the back of the house, a yellow hard-hard jammed on to his head and compressing his brain slightly. Stiles waited about four seconds before taking it off and setting it down on the only surface that didn’t look like it was about to crumble into dust.

The Hale house was a wreck, it was true. The fire plus two years of California weather had destroyed much hope of actually harvesting items of retail quality. Stiles’s checklist was for things like useable wood, furniture parts, or metal that hadn’t rusted through. Anything that could potentially find new life was to be salvaged and thrown into a big skip outside, or the back of a truck if it was whole. Stiles was all for recycling, but he wasn’t impressed by the splinters he was getting.

‘Oh come on, I barely touched that one,’ he grumbled, dropping the clipboard for the third time to glare moodily at his finger. The sounds of busy labourers echoed weirdly through the house, typical of construction sites, but voices were seldom heard (they were a grim, unfriendly bunch, Stiles felt), so when he heard the odd, coughing laughter, his head jerked up quickly to see who was finding his pain funny.

He spun a three-sixty before deciding he’d just been hearing the other workers elsewhere in the building.

A few moments later he put his foot into the hard-hat when going to examine the quality of half a chair in the corner. He stumbled and flailed and yelled about six curse words before catching himself on a wooden beam, which promptly creaked alarmingly.

‘Please don’t fall and kill me,’ he begged, as he righted himself.

And again, he heard the odd coughing laughter. Stiles definitely wasn’t imagining it this time.

‘Yo, someone there?’ he called, frowning slightly as he stared back up the passageway. From one of the gaping holes in the roof he could see that the sun was high in the sky now, and that it was even quieter than it’d been before. He’d advance quite far into the house, getting bored quickly by each room. And he had definitely heard laughter that time.

He’d given the culprit ample time to come forward. Stiles wondered if he was being hazed.

‘Ok, laugh at the new guy’s pain, ha ha,’ he called, uneasily. ‘Just doing my best here.’

Stiles turned back to his work, and jumped roughly three feet in the air at the sight of a young man crouching beside his discarded yellow hard-hat.

‘Oh my god - jeez, pal, make some noise next time,’ Stiles said weakly, rubbing his chest. ‘Where - uh, where did you come from?’ He frowned at the man, who hadn’t looked up yet. Had he dropped in from an upper level? Stiles stared suspiciously up at the hole in the ceiling.

‘Uh, are you ok?’

The man finally registered his voice. He looked up, as though surprised to see Stiles standing there. Surprise turned to incredulity, which almost immediately turned to panic.

‘Woah, don’t freak out,’ Stiles said slowly, holding out his hands. Shit, was this guy homeless? Or rather, living in this home? He looked a bit too well groomed to be a squatter, but Stiles wasn't one to judge the grooming habits of transients.

The man’s mouth dropped open. He stood quickly, almost so quick that Stiles missed it. As he moved, the light caught him weirdly. Stiles blinked; it almost looked like the man was glowing.

‘Dude, are you …’ Stiles trailed off, arms still raised placatingly (or defensively, depending on how this went), as he took in the entirety of the man standing before him. Definitely a man, definitely very hot. And yeah, he was absolutely glowing. And not in the way a pregnant woman looks great, or when you’ve been eating your vegetables.

The man looked extremely dazed and unsure. He mumbled something that sounded like ‘Oh, no,’ before backing away … through the wall.

Stiles blinked rapidly. Then he shook his head. He rubbed his eyes, but still, the man was gone.

‘There is asbestos in this building,’ Stiles said faintly. ‘And I’m being poisoned. Because I did not just see a man walk through a wall.’

Stiles dug out his phone, blinking a few more times for good measure. He googled “asbestos poisoning symptoms”, and got very frustrated with the results and the phone ended up joining the hard hat on the dusty floor.

‘Right,’ he muttered. ‘I have not been here for ten to forty years. There’s no asbestos. I just saw a man walk through a wall.’

Men eating their sandwiches barely had time to glance up as Stiles sped past them, clipboard forgotten. He burst out the remains of the front door and sprinted around to the back of the house, where he skidded to a halt, breathing hard.

‘It looks solid,’ he muttered, pressing a hand tentatively to the wall. Yep, solid wood. Well, mostly solid. But definitely real, no tricks.

‘Where did he go?’ Stiles was almost whispering now. ‘Where did you go?’

It took him a little while to build up the nerve to go back into the house. The builders were giving him weird looks, and the foreman yelled at him for slacking, but Stiles just held up a shaky hand as he paced.

‘Got a little dizzy,’ he called, holding up a hand to indicate five minutes. ‘And possibly saw a ghost,’ he added quietly, amazed that he was actually saying that sentence without irony.

The thing was, the man - the ghost? - hadn’t looked threatening at all. He’d looked confused, and a little bit scared. But that didn’t change the fact that Stiles had literally seen a ghost. He ran a shaky hand over his face, thinking through his options.

Going back in might literally be the scariest thing he’d ever done. But how many chances did you get to talk to a real live ghost? Or real dead ghost. Whatever.

Future Stiles would kick himself into his own grave if he passed up this opportunity.

His hard-hat, phone, and clipboard were still where he’d left them. Stiles looked hesitantly around the room.

‘Uh … hello? Hi. Is, uh, is someone there?’

No response. Stiles didn’t know if he was relieved or not.

‘So, I’ve got a job to do,’ Stiles continued, feeling the hair on his arms stand up as he addressed the empty room. ‘Uh, it’s not my job. I mean, I’m not getting paid or anything. But I’ve got to be here, so if you could just not terrify me for a couple of hours while I get this done, that would be great.’

Feeling like a very terrified fool, Stiles bent to pick up his clipboard.

‘Can you see me?’

Stiles never knew how loud he could scream until just that moment. The clipboard spun out of his hands and crashed into the wall as he toppled over backwards. He ended up on his butt, back pressed to the rotting wall, covered in leaves and dust and wood and not caring because the goddamn ghost was standing in front of him looking a lot more worried than he had any right to.

‘Oh god, oh my god,’ breathed Stiles. ‘Shit.’

‘You can see me,’ repeated the ghost. His arms hung loosely by his side, like he didn’t know what to do with them.

‘I can - yes! Yes I can see you, you’re right there,’ exclaimed Stiles, voice rising to a very embarrassing squeak.

‘No one else can see me.’ The ghost blinked, somewhat confused. ‘I don’t know how long I’ve been back …’

‘Been back?’ Through his haze of panic, some of the common theories about ghosts began to circle in Stiles’s brain. ‘Where were you?’

The ghost looked at him, and Stiles cringed slightly. There was something very unnerving about his pale-eyed gaze, especially since the glowing was back.

‘Stiles? You ok?’

The voice of one of the friendlier men working on the first floor drifted down to Stiles, startling both him and the ghost.

‘Fine,’ croaked Stiles. ‘Just saw a mouse.’ There was a round of distant chuckles, before the quiet murmur of chat returned.

‘Stiles.’

He flinched. The ghost was mouthing the word to himself.

‘Yeah, that’s me,’ Stiles tried. ‘I’m Stiles. And, um, who are you?’

The ghost looked at him again. Really looked at him this time. Some of Stiles’s fear dropped away as he momentarily saw a young man, not a paranormal entity. He was frowning, as though the question confused him.

‘Me?’

‘You,’ prompted Stiles, curiosity beginning to stir. ‘Who are you?’

More frowning. The glow flickered, and then abruptly vanished as the man’s expression cleared.

‘I’m Derek.’

As first impressions go, Derek the ghost made a good one. He wandered around the spacious room, glancing curiously at Stiles every now and then, and basically fulfilling everything Stiles hoped a ghost would be. He walked through every piece of furniture, a feat which never failed to amaze Stiles to point of jaw-on-the-floor, and he’d started glowing again almost immediately, though it was much more faint now. For his part, Stiles had recovered enough to manage a standing position, and he was now trying very hard not to ask a thousand questions at once. Though seeming less nervous, Derek still appeared very unsure as to what was going on.

‘You were laughing at me,’ Stiles tried, cautiously. He was watching Derek pass through a broken chair, stopping halfway through to look at Stiles.

‘I was,’ Derek confirmed. He looked like he was tasting each word before he said it.

‘Did I … wake you up?’ Stiles was desperately hungry for information, but communication levels were nowhere near good enough.

‘I think I saw you,’ Derek said vaguely. ‘From far away. I saw your glow.’

Stiles blinked. ‘My glow?’ he questioned, perplexed. ‘You’re the one who’s glowing.’

Derek examined one hand, fascinated. ‘I am glowing,’ he noted, brow furrowing. ‘That’s not right, is it?’

As the words left his mouth, the pale glow dimmed to almost imperceptible levels. Stiles’s brain was racing so fast he was developing a twitch.

‘It’s gone,’ Derek pointed out, unnecessarily.

‘Yeah,’ muttered Stiles, tentatively approaching Derek. He wanted to see if he appeared in any way translucent up close.

Derek turned away, looking up at the roof where the voices had come from earlier. Stiles stretched out a hand and attempted to touch the hem of Derek’s t-shirt. When his fingers passed right through, goosebumps erupted all over Stiles’s skin.

Derek turned back suddenly, and Stiles unfortunately took that time to notice that he was really very good looking. Apart from his eyes, which were piercing and hypnotising all by themselves, his hair and beard looked soft, and his arms were muscled. They were of a height, but Derek was practically three times the size of Stiles. He was just impressive. Stiles was impressed. Even though the guy was dead.

This appraisal lasted about five seconds, until Derek glared and said, ‘Don’t do that.’

‘Do what - ?’

Instead of answering, Derek demonstrated. He plunged his fist straight through Stiles’s stomach, causing a terrifying cold, dead feeling to seep through his abdomen and into his limbs, like ice water. Stiles sucked in a horrified gasp and staggered backwards. Derek was glowing brightly again, and it was the last thing Stiles saw before everything went dark.

Stiles’s eyes snapped open. He found himself staring into a pair of very pale blue eyes.

‘Ow,’ Stiles whispered, stunned at the pain rocketing through his cranium.

Derek didn’t say anything, but continued to hang over him.

‘If I sit up, am I gonna go right through you?’ asked Stiles. His little bump on the noggin, while extremely painful, seemed to have cleared things up a bit for him. Derek was no longer very scary, but Stiles absolutely did not want to touch him again.

Derek huffed slightly, and disappeared from sight as Stiles sat up gingerly, rubbing the back of his head.

‘Man,’ he groaned, ‘how long was I out? Hey, pass me my phone.’

Derek gave him a look.

‘Oh yeah, right,’ Stiles remembered belatedly. ‘Um, I’ll just …’

He struggled to his feet, and Derek stepped back a bit.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said gruffly. Stiles blinked at him.

‘For what?’

‘For …’ Derek demonstrated, without touching. ‘Trying to push you. It felt weird, when you touched me. I didn’t know what it was. It’s been such a long time since I felt … anything.’

Stiles felt awkward. Clearly he’d stepped over some ghostly personal boundary (though he guessed that unsolicited touching was kind of a human faux pas too). He tried to shrug off the moment and went for his phone, but Derek beat him to it. Before either of them realised what was happening, Derek’s fingers were closing around the phone. He picked it up, and it stayed up. They both stared.

‘Dude,’ breathed Stiles.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Derek.

He was Derek Hale, of course. He of the Hale house, who'd supposedly perished in the fire, along with the rest of his family. Stiles wasn't sure how much of this Derek was really aware of, but he sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to bring it up first.

Following the phone incident, Derek spent several minutes passing it back and forth in his hands, a look of amazement on his face.

‘I couldn’t do that before,’ he muttered, each time he touched a new part of the phone.

‘Maybe you’re getting better,’ Stiles suggested. It was a joke, but Derek looked at him seriously.

‘Maybe I am,’ he agreed. He was more vocal now, too. Stiles didn’t know if he’d been emboldened by his success with the phone, or if his lack of glowing contributed to his presence on the side of the living rather than the dead.

‘You don’t sound happy about that,’ Stiles hedged, watching his face.

Derek looked down at the phone again, tentatively sliding the lock and unlock screen back and forth.

‘You fell down earlier, and I laughed,’ he began. ‘I’d never made a sound before. I don’t think I even heard it properly the first time, I thought it was someone else.’

‘Yeah, I thought it was one of the workmen at first,’ Stiles explained. ‘Then I thought it was asbestos - err, never mind. But you can touch things now. Does that mean you’re coming back?’

They looked at each other.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Derek, softly. And then, even quieter, ‘Maybe I shouldn’t.’

The glow surged, and the phone dropped through Derek’s fingers. Stiles’s eyes automatically followed it to the floor. When they snapped up again, Derek was gone.

Stiles called Scott to tell him he’d have to take a rain check on dinner. He was literally in a state of shock, and couldn’t do anything but go home and google everything about ghosts. He stayed up reading until 3am, going over everything twice and comparing it all to what he knew about Derek so far. Then he snuck into his dad’s office and read the Hale case file three times over until he had all the details straight in his head. Even when he collapsed into bed, he kept seeing those pale blue eyes.

The next day he was early for work. The foreman greeted him with surprise, given his probably lacklustre performance the day before, but gave him his clipboard and hard-hat and sent him off, this time to another section of the house.

Stiles worried that maybe Derek was confined to the room he’d been in yesterday, but he showed up after ten minutes of Stiles nervously hanging around in the room whispering ‘Derek?’ every few seconds and feeling like a fool.

‘I’m here,’ Derek announced, once again looking surprised that Stiles could see him. And maybe a little surprised that Stiles had come back.

‘Did you think I wouldn’t come back?’ Stiles asked, attempted bravado.

Derek shrugged. ‘Well, you did scream pretty loud at first.’

Stiles scowled. ‘Shut up.’

A tiny smile flickered across Derek’s face.

‘So, I’ve been doing some research,’ Stiles began, dropping his backpack and diving into it for the sheets he’d printed out the night before. ‘You’re something between corporeal and incorporeal - that means sometimes you can touch stuff, and sometime you can’t - which means you’re probably stuck between the world of the living, my world, and the world of the dead - uh, your world, I guess. All the websites say that means you could have some sort of unfinished business here, that’s keeping you from, um, crossing over. Does that sound right?’ Stiles looked up hopefully at Derek, but didn’t get the response he was expecting.

‘I shouldn’t be here, is what you’re saying,’ Derek said, quietly. He looked down at his hands, which were glowing again.

Stiles hurriedly tried to cover his blunder. ‘No, no, that’s not what I’m saying,’ he said hastily. ‘What I mean is, you’re in between. If you were just hanging around, ghost style, you’d be stuck. But I think - because you were able to pick up my phone yesterday - that there might be a way for you to become unstuck.’

‘Meaning I could cross over,’ Derek said, looking up at him abruptly. His voice wasn’t so much reluctant as it was starkly afraid.

‘I guess,’ said Stiles slowly. ‘But…’ He looked down at this notes again. ‘I mean, I think you might be able to stay, too?’

Derek looked so cautiously optimistic that for a moment Stiles’s heart gave a painful kick.

‘I’m not sure though,’ he added, not wanting to get Derek’s hopes up, not even wanting to think about how that could be possible, or what might happen afterwards, if it worked. ‘I have absolutely zero experience here, dude. But I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to assume that it might be because you don’t know what happened. With the fire.’

The silence hung heavy between them, until finally Derek sighed.

‘No, I don’t,’ he muttered. ‘I’m not sure I want to know.’

That wasn’t the reaction Stiles had been expecting.

‘Do you think that maybe if you did, then you could stop wondering and, I dunno, be at peace?’ Stiles felt like an idiot, but he really was trying.

Derek shrugged. ‘Guess it couldn’t hurt,’ he said heavily.

Stiles wanted to sit down, but felt awkward since Derek couldn’t. He cleared his throat.

‘Ok, right. So this is what happened.’

Over the next forty five minutes Stiles explained, as gently as he could, what caused the fire, and what happened afterwards. After a few minutes he just concentrated on his notes, because Derek’s expression changed into one of such intense guilt and sadness that Stiles honestly couldn’t bear it.

‘Kate,’ murmured Derek, looking so very small for someone so big. ‘So it was my fault then.’

Stiles was indignant. ‘No! It was her fault, weren’t you listening?’

Surprisingly, Derek actually smiled.

‘No, it was mine,’ he assured Stiles gently. He looked over at him, sadly. ‘We were together. She had this grudge against my family. She’d been trying to buy them out for years, but they were too dedicated to providing for Beacon Hills. I knew it was a bad idea to be with her, but she was so …’ Derek shook his head. ‘I never thought she’d do anything like this. But I should have known.’

Stiles frowned. ‘Sounds like she probably would have flipped her lid anyways, Derek.’

Derek snorted, surprising Stiles again. ‘Maybe,’ he murmured. ‘Maybe.’

Stiles paused, wondering what was going to happen next. Derek wasn’t glowing anymore, but he was still there.

‘Um, so what now?’ he asked, shifting his weight around. Today’s room was darker than yesterday’s and it was harder to see without Derek’s glow, but there was a lot more furniture than before. Stiles itched to curl up in a chair, no matter how damp and gross, just to take the weight off his feet.

Derek shrugged. ‘I’m still here,’ he pointed out.

Stiles stifled a yawn. ‘I dunno man, maybe it’s the house? Maybe you can’t leave because you’re still attached to it.’

He’d only been hedging, distracted by how tired he was, but Derek’s ears perked up.

‘So when the house gets demolished, do you think I’ll go?’

Stiles snapped back to attention. ‘Woah, go? Dude, I thought we were trying to get you to stay.’

Derek frowned. ‘I can’t hang around as a ghost, Stiles. That’s the point.’

Stiles waved his hands quickly. ‘No, that’s not what I meant. Look, I don’t think you’re a broken ghost, Derek. I think you’re stuck in between. What if you weren’t supposed to die. I mean, none of you were supposed to die, obviously, but what if you’re allowed to come back, if you really want to? Some sort of small cosmic justice for an act that can’t be undone.’ Stiles was reaching, but the more he spoke, the more he wanted to believe it.

‘But why me,’ protested Derek. ‘Why not any of … the rest of them. My family.’

Stiles swallowed hard.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied quietly. ‘But Derek, they’re gone. Aren’t they?’

Derek’s silence was answer enough.

‘I think I remember them going,’ Derek said, a while later. Stiles bent up from where he’d been trying to unearth the rest of an old lamp that looked salvageable.

‘Oh hey, you’re back,’ Stiles greeted him. Derek had flickered out about an hour ago, after Stiles had asked him about his family. Stiles tried not to look as relieved as he felt. ‘You remember what?’

Derek appeared to be struggling with words. ‘It was like, for a moment, I could see them all around me. Like we were all ready to leave. And I thought, just for a second, that maybe I shouldn’t go. That I didn’t want to go. And that second stretched out, for an eternity it seemed. And then they were just gone. And the light faded, and I was alone.’

Stiles felt the weight of what Derek was saying settle down upon him like a heavy blanket. He took a deep, shuddering breath.

‘Do you want to follow them now?’ he asked, almost dreading the answer. ‘If you could - I mean, I could …?’

‘I don’t think it’s up to you,’ Derek said slowly. ‘But I don’t know what to do, or how to do it.’

‘The house is due to come down in two weeks,’ Stiles realised suddenly. ‘I think that might mean you have a deadline, man.’

Derek sighed again, sounding more frustrated this time. He turned on his heel, beginning to stalk, and surprised both of them by walking straight into a chair with a loud thud.

‘Ow,’ Derek said loudly. There was a moment of utter confusion where they both looked between the chair and each other.

‘I felt that,’ Derek commented.

‘Ghosts are weird,’ said Stiles fervently.

Every day, Derek got a little more solid. He was able to hold Stiles’s phone for longer periods without dropping it, and he even managed to sit in a chair for a few minutes, before he dropped completely through it and disappeared for five worrying minutes. He eventually reemerged through a wall, and said he didn’t want to talk about it.

Mostly, Derek just ambled around whichever room Stiles happened to be cataloguing, passing through things and yelping with excitement (and sometimes pain) whenever he succeeded in bumping into something. Stiles was so amused and impressed by his dedication that he spent far more time watching Derek than he did actually working.

‘Oh man, I can’t believe I still haven’t cleared this room,’ he complained one evening, shortly before he was due to leave. ‘There’s still a whole pile of stuff over here.’ He didn’t like showing Derek what he was marking as salvageable and trash, because he was becoming very aware that these things had belonged to Derek and his family, though Derek seemed not to notice.

‘It’s your own fault for playing me that song three times in a row earlier,’ Derek told him, from where he was plucking strings of a broken guitar that Stiles had been deliberately avoiding because it looked so sad. He wondered if it had been Derek’s.

‘Don’t even try to tell me that your life isn’t infinitely better now that you’ve heard “Flawless”.’

Derek snorted. ‘What life?’ He plucked idly at the broken guitar strings.

‘Think positive, Derek,’ Stiles insisted. ‘There’s still a week to go. You’ll figure it out.’

The guitar abruptly crashed to the floor. Stiles jumped and whirled around. Derek was looking very pent up; he flexed his fingers restlessly, staring at the guitar with a mixture of frustration and unhappiness on his face.

‘I can’t figure it out,’ he said, through gritted teeth. ‘That’s the point, Stiles. There’s nothing to figure out. Things just happen, I’m not doing anything.’

Stiles hesitated. ‘Derek,’ he began. ‘This is happening for a reason, it has to be. Ghosts don’t just break. I just think if you really try, really focus on being here, on being real - ‘

‘Do you even realise what you’re saying!’ Derek exclaimed, anger colouring his tone. Stiles noticed that he wasn’t even remotely glowing anymore, but Derek didn’t let him speak up about it. ‘You’re telling me to “be real”, like it’s just something I can choose. My family is dead, Stiles. They’re gone, and I’m here. How am I supposed to go along with that like it’s fair? Like it’s even right? I shouldn’t be here. That’s why I keep dropping things, why I keep falling through the floor. Something went wrong, and I didn’t cross over. When the house comes down, I’ll be gone. I’ll go. It was my time two years ago, Stiles.’ He looked at him sadly, all the fire gone out of him. ‘It’s just how it has to be.’

Stiles knew he wasn’t in a position to be getting angry, but something like a mixture of indignation and a weird protectiveness made him speak up forcefully.

‘Hey,’ he snapped. ‘All this “it’s my time” bullshit? It's bullshit, ok.’

‘Stiles,’ Derek began tiredly, but Stiles cut across him.

‘No, ok, it’s my turn. I’ve been patient, but you have got to want this, Derek. You’ve got to let yourself want this, because you deserve it, ok? You weren’t supposed to die. I know you think that the universe is always right, but sometimes the universe absolutely sucks. My mom died when I was eight. She wasted away in front of me and my dad, slowly, until all that was left of her was a shadow, still breathing. What part of the universe did that benefit? And before you start talking about ripple effects and all that, my dad was shot two inches below his heart, his first day on the job. He would have died, and probably should have died, according to the doctors. If he had, then I wouldn’t have been born. But he did survive, and I was born, and now here I am trying to convince you that it all literally means nothing.’ Stiles’s hands were balled into fists. Derek’s eyes were lowered. ‘People die. You died. And now you’re not dead anymore, not fully. You’re coming back, Derek. If you really believe that the universe wants certain things, then surely this is the universe telling you to fucking live.’

Stiles was breathing hard - he wasn’t even sure where all of that had come from, but he suddenly very much wanted Derek to survive.

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Derek muttered, turning away.

‘Do not ignore me, Derek Hale!’ snapped Stiles, reaching out unthinkingly. He remembered too late what happened last time he touched Derek, but instead of icy nothingness, his hand made loud contact with Derek’s shoulder. The touch burned through him, shocking and electric.

Derek whirled around, eyes wide. They stared together at Stiles’s hand on Derek’s extremely real, solid shoulder, and Stiles thought he could almost hear Derek’s heart beating.

‘That’s new,’ Stiles breathed.

Derek didn’t look able to speak. He turned slowly so that they were facing, moving to allow Stiles to keep his hand where it was. He looked back and forth between Stiles’s hand and his face, the sheer amazement almost knocking Stiles down. Holy shit, the guy looked like he was about to cry. Stiles saw his opportunity.

‘This is why you need to live, Derek,’ he said, voice low. He squeezed Derek’s shoulder, and Derek inhaled sharply.

‘This is what’s worth living for,’ he whispered.

Slowly, cautiously, Stiles slid his hand down Derek’s arm, quietly thrilled to find that he was remaining solid. Derek shivered as Stiles moved from his t-shirt to his bare skin; the look that passed over his face was just incredible.

Finally, Stiles slipped his hand into Derek’s own. His heart was beating rather fast. For a moment, Derek’s hand just hung there. But gradually, Derek managed to fold his own fingers over Stiles’. When he did, he closed his eyes, almost as though he’d been in pain and suddenly the pain was gone, and Stiles had to blink very rapidly to clear his vision.

They stayed like that for a long time. Stiles had yet to finish cataloging the rest of the room, but it could honestly go to hell for all he cared right now.

‘Did you have a library in here or something?’

Stiles was staring around at the ruined shelves on the walls. Derek followed him in, looking around. His boots made the same crunching noises that Stiles' made as he walked. That was new.

‘Kind of,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t officially a library, it’s just where the books went when we ran out of space in the rest of the house.’

It was raining today, and Stiles had been let off the hook in his unfinished room to go and see what books could be rescued before they got even more waterlogged. Stiles didn’t really see the point, but the actual work aspect of his days was becoming less and less important.

He shuffled through the room, hard-hat under one arm, clipboard under the other.

‘Want to hold that for me?’ Stiles asked innocently, holding out the hard-hat. Derek took it from him, and then blinked in surprise.

‘It’s almost all the time now,’ Stiles pointed out, grinning. ‘And you barely glow at all now.’

The glow had been coming back even when Derek was mostly solid, but only in certain areas. Today it was hovering around Derek’s lower back, as though it were trying to cling on.

‘Yeah, still can’t seem to shake that,’ Derek agreed, glancing back. He didn’t sound too confident, but Stiles let it pass. It was progress.

‘So, any favourites?’ Stiles asked, as he began to sift through the mess. Much of the stuff had dried out during the most recent summer, and some of the books were recognisable, especially the ones that had been sheltered by glass and other furniture.

‘I can’t really remember,’ replied Derek. ‘I wasn’t much of a reader. My sisters were, though. Cora read all the classics. Laura preferred mystery novels, but no one’s perfect.’

Stiles snorted. ‘And what books did you like, Derek, when you bothered to read?’

Derek paused, and Stiles turned to see him staring up at the walls, contemplating.

‘I liked kids books best,’ he said, catching Stiles off guard; Derek was oddly distracting.

‘Really? Kids books?’ Stiles wrinkled his nose. ‘Like, to read?’

Derek rolled his eyes. ‘Well I didn’t go to the bookstore and round up a whole bunch of picture books,’ he said dryly. ‘I mean, stuff my mom read me as a kid. I think we still have some of my favourites - or had,’ he amended, quietly.

Two years wasn’t very long at all, Stiles thought sadly, as he watched Derek walk through the room, examining titles that caught his eye.

‘I never really took in what the house looked like, before I woke up,’ Derek explained. That’s what he called hearing Stiles’s laughter for the first time, “waking up”. ‘I wasn’t really here, not fully. And even now I can’t seem to …’ He trailed off, squinting. ‘I remember a book about Caterpillars. Is that it? What does that say?’

Stiles clambered over to him, looking down at where Derek was pointing.

‘Watership Down,’ he read. ‘Did you read that one?’

Derek was smiling, with sudden recognition. ‘That was my favourite,’ he murmured, looking amazed.

‘Serendipitous,’ Stiles quipped, looking at Derek quickly. ‘Or something. That’s lucky.’

‘I guess,’ Derek agreed. He frowned again. ‘I can’t read the title. The letters are all jumbled for some reason.’

‘Maybe the reading part of your brain is glowing,’ Stiles suggested. Derek nodded like he knew exactly what Stiles meant.

Stiles bent down and picked up the book, grabbing it with two hands when it looked like it might fall apart. He blew a layer of dirt off the top (leaving about two layers of similar grime left) and opened the book gingerly.

‘Do you remember how it began?’ he asked teasingly, looking at Derek over his shoulder.

Derek shook his head, smiling. ‘No, but I remember how it ends,’ he said lightly.

‘Well, don’t spoil it,’ Stiles said firmly, eyes already scanning the first page. After a moment of silence, Derek coughed.

‘Uh, how does it start again?’

Stiles looked over his shoulder, a grin halfway across his face, but sobered when he saw that Derek was in earnest, if slightly shame-faced.

Without making any kind of comment, he scanned back to the first line, and cleared his throat.

Stiles was still doing a lot of reading, and had finally come up with a solid theory, though a suspension of disbelief was heavily required.

Human deaths were almost instantaneous, he read. They died, and they crossed over, with no time in between to think about anything.

Ghosts, then, were generally explained under two headings. One was the ghost with unfinished business, which they'd established that Derek wasn't. The other was the ghost that remained attached to an object of some kind. Stiles wasn't sure why, but it seemed that Derek couldn't leave while the house remained standing. It probably had something to do with the fact that Derek maintained that he remembered hesitating, that he felt doubt about crossing over.

In general, once that object was destroyed, the link was broken and the soul could go. But Stiles had found some very interesting information about what happened when the soul chose to stay before that moment came.

If, he'd read, the soul finds something human to latch on to - if it chooses something stronger than the pull of death - then a new link to life is established. But it had to be done before the old tether was destroyed, otherwise there was nothing to keep the soul in the living world.

As promising as this was, Stiles could see a fatal flaw. All of Derek's family were dead. He had no one to stay for. A lust for life wasn't going to cut it. He had to feel he deserved to stay, that there was something he wanted more. It was vague and uncertain and stiles didn't know how to explain any of it to Derek.

So he didn't say anything. But he prayed every night that Derek would choose to stay.

As the days ticked by, Derek continued to glow in odd places. And Stiles watched the influx of diggers and other large destructive machines on to the site with a growing sense of unease.

‘Uh, not to pressure you or anything, but do you think you’re any closer to getting rid of that pesky halo around your calf, Derek?’ he asked one morning, after he’d been assigned to one of the downstairs bathrooms, of all places. Derek was sitting on the lid of the toilet, making patterns in the dirt with his shoes.

‘I’ve told you,’ he replied irritably. ‘I don’t know how to make it do anything.’

A loud crash from outside echoed through the house as one of the diggers began warming up. Stiles was getting nervous.

‘Ok, maybe you just need one final push,’ he suggested, pacing back and forth in the tiny bathroom. The foreman had given up expecting any real results from Stiles’s rooms, which might have explained the bathroom, but wouldn’t do him any favours if someone caught him talking to a mysterious stranger. Especially a stranger who was occasionally prone to disappearing through random objects with a muffled curse.

‘Like what?’ Derek asked, flicking a spec of dirt off his leg.

Stiles braced himself. ‘Like … this.’ He lunged forward and pushed hard against Derek’s shoulder.

Derek looked up, indignant. ‘What was that for?’

Stiles didn’t answer, just pushed him again, harder. The glow around Derek’s leg flickered.

‘What are you trying to achieve here, Stiles?’

‘Come on, Derek!’ said Stiles, exasperated. ‘React! Do something!’

Derek got to his feet quickly, but not supernaturally quickly.

‘I might be a ghost, but I can still kick your ass if that’s what you want,’ he said frankly. Stiles rolled his eyes.

‘God, are all ghosts this dramatic?’ he commented, and went to shove him again. This time, Derek caught Stiles’s wrist before it could get anywhere near his shoulder. The sudden movement caught Stiles off balance; he flailed, naturally, and Derek grabbed his other wrist to steady him.

Derek’s skin was warmer than any ghost’s had a right to be. And they were close now, very close. It was a small bathroom. Stiles felt his face heating up.

‘Is that something enough for you?’ Derek murmured, drawing Stiles closer. Ever since they’d first successfully touched, Derek had become obsessed with it, always cautiously asking Stiles if he could touch his elbow or shoulder at least once a day. It was something of a security blanket for him, Stiles felt. A progress bar. Look, you’re still here.

This, however, was nothing like a security blanket.

Derek dipped his head, nosing at Stiles’s neck, and suddenly Stiles was one big quivering muscle of sheer desire. Yeah, ok, Derek was a ghost at best, dead at worst, but that meant absolutely nothing to a human male with eyes. And so what if Derek had made his way into one or four of Stiles’s dreams? They were spending all day together. It was only natural.

‘Stiles,’ breathed Derek, and ok, this was an escalation.

‘Is this something you would stay for,’ Stiles asked, trembling slightly, hardly daring to hope. ‘I know there’s books, and food, and sunshine, all that good stuff. But I …’ He trailed off as their bodies drifted closer, almost unconsciously. Their hips were touching, lined up with one another. Their hands linked and dropped down, letting their bodies lean in towards each other. Stiles was glancing up, and Derek was looking down; they watched each other, cautious, careful. Burning. God, Stiles wanted him.

But he was so afraid - terrified, really, lying awake at night kind of terrified - that it wasn’t going to work. This was a whole different kind of fear of rejection. Derek might literally disappear on him, maybe forever. Maybe tomorrow.

But right now Stiles’s body was responding, and their lips were so close, it was ridiculous that they weren’t already kissing.

Derek’s lips met his so slowly, Stiles almost didn’t believe it was happening. The lightest of touches, the faintest of gasps. Heat rushed through him. His stomach flipped a thousand times in the space of the single best kiss of his life, and there wasn’t even tongue. Stiles had it so fucking bad.

‘Will you stay for this?’ he whispered against Derek’s mouth, trembling. ‘Will you stay for me?’

Derek nodded, forehead brushing his own. It wasn’t a guarantee - how could it be? - but Stiles clung to it desperately, even as he clung to Derek. And his heart beat fearfully against the silence of Derek’s own.

Stiles overslept and got to work late. Almost too late.

‘Wait, what are you doing?’ he ran towards the foreman, panicked, as the digger continued to utterly demolish the front half of the house.

‘We’re ahead of schedule,’ the foreman grunted. ‘Moving the demolition up.’

‘To today?’ Stiles almost yelled. He thought they’d have more time. They still hadn’t figured it out!

The foreman looked at him curiously. ‘Yeah, I thought you’d be happy, kid. You’re off the hook, two days early. I kind of thought you’d figure that, you’re an hour late.’

‘I overslept - oh god never mind,’ Stiles snapped. ‘You have to wait, you can’t do it yet.’

The foreman raised an eyebrow, turning fully to face him. ‘Oh really? Why is that, Stilinski?’

Stiles gaped like a fish. ‘Because … I’m not done,’ he finished lamely. ‘Uh, there are some books left - ‘

The foreman snorted. ‘Right, there’s a good used book store in town. I’m sure you can console yourself in there.’

He wasn’t going to listen. But this absolutely could not happen. Stiles had to find a way to stall somehow, and hopefully get Derek’s attention. He didn’t have a plan - there absolutely was no plan - but suddenly he found himself stepping out in front of the digger.

There were startled yells as the machinery ground to a halt just inches away from Stiles. If he hadn’t already been scared out of his mind for Derek, he might have peed a little. As it was, cold fear was turning to ice as he stared down the huge growling machine in front of him.

‘You can’t knock it down yet,’ Stiles yelled over the noise. ‘Please! Just wait a little longer.’

‘Kid, get out of there!’ roared the foreman. ‘We’ve got a job to do, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘What I have to,’ muttered Stiles, staring determinedly up at the man operating the digger, who was gesturing furiously.

‘Someone call the sheriff,’ snapped the foreman. ‘You two, get this guy out of here.’

Stiles backed up as two burly workmen approached him. His back hit one of the beams holding up the front porch and he grabbed it behind his back, ignoring the splinters.

‘You can’t tear it down,’ he begged, as they advanced. ‘Please, one more day.’

‘Son, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you’re gonna do yourself an injury acting like that,’ said one man firmly. ‘Come on now, step away.’

‘No.’ Stiles was firm. He wasn’t even sure what he could achieve anymore - the men were twice his size - but he couldn’t give up. Not without a fight. His heart was hammering against his chest.

One of the men sighed in exasperation, and reached for him. Stiles slapped his hand away.

The man glared. ‘Right, now you’re asking for it,’ he growled, and lunged for Stiles. He was taken by surprise and all he could do was cringe back against the post.

But the blow never came. Stiles and the rest of the onlookers gaped as Derek appeared at his side, one hand firmly wrapped around the workman’s raised arm.

‘Don’t touch him,’ Derek said levelly, but there was real fire in his eyes. Stiles stepped back, eyes skittering over Derek’s form. He couldn’t see any glowing. His heart was beating too fast for him to even think about what that could mean.

‘Sorry,’ Derek continued, dropping the man’s hand with a warning glare. ‘I was related to the Hales. I used to come here a lot, and I just wanted to say goodbye to it before it got torn down. Stiles was trying to give me some privacy.’

The foreman had arrived on the scene. ‘Eh, sorry about all this,’ he said, looking slightly shamefaced. ‘But we’ve got a job to do, and this guy is - ‘

‘It’s no problem,’ Derek said calmly. ‘I’m finished now.’

Without another word, he took Stiles’s hand and dragged him away. Stiles, who was still mostly slack-jawed, followed obediently. He only snapped out of it when the digger began to crash into the house.

‘Derek wait!’ he cried, panicked again. ‘What if you’re not - ‘

‘It’s fine, Stiles,’ Derek assured him. Stiles trained his eyes on him, heart crashing into his ribs, terrified of seeing parts of him start to glow, or disappear. Derek’s hand felt real in his own, but it always had, hadn’t it? How could he tell?

But Derek had that covered too.

‘Look,’ he said softly, and taking Stiles’s hand, he placed it over his heart.

Stiles had never felt such simultaneous relief and amazement as he did when he felt Derek’s heart beating in his chest. It was a real heart. It was alive. Derek was alive.

‘I got a little angry this morning,’ Derek explained over the crash of machinery. ‘Funnily enough, you were on my mind.’ He smirked. ‘I threw some stuff around and got a splinter. It took me a while to realise that ghosts don’t bleed.’ He held up the tiny cut on his finger triumphantly for Stiles to inspect closely.

‘So does this mean you’re really here?’ Stiles asked, almost breathless.

Derek nodded, tightening his grip on Stiles’s hand. Their eyes met, and Stiles saw the worry there, the worry he felt in his own heart, despite everything.

‘Maybe we should just see it out,’ Stiles said quietly.

So together they sat on the low hill overlooking the house, and watched as Derek’s home crumbled before them. It took nine hours for the whole thing to be fully disassembled and cleared away, and at the end of it all, their hands remained entwined together. Tear tracks had dried on both their cheeks at some point, and Stiles was starving. For lack of anything better to say, he said this.

‘Me too,’ said Derek automatically, and then he paused. ‘I’m hungry,’ he announced, amazed. ‘Stiles, I’m hungry. I haven’t been hungry in - in forever.’

Stiles laughed, although he was kind of crying too. ‘Ok,’ he agreed, smiling. ‘We could go get some food. If that’s what you want?’

Derek looked at Stiles. The sun was setting behind them, and Stiles realised Derek was even more beautiful in natural light. He wondered how Derek would look in his bed, wrapped in his sheets, hair tousled on his pillow. He tightened his grip on Derek’s hand.

‘We can do anything you want,’ he said, pressing his forehead to Derek’s. ‘Whatever you want. You deserve it all, Derek.’

Derek kissed Stiles, and it was like fireworks.

‘I stayed for you,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re the difference, Stiles. I didn’t want to stay, because there was no one to stay for. Even after you told me about the fire, I was tied to that house. I just didn’t understand why, at first. And I want you more than I probably deserve, but so much that I don’t care.’ He huffed a small laugh. ‘I thought I was tied to a balloon that kept trying to drift away, but it was kind of the other way around.’

‘Are you calling me a balloon?’

Derek kissed his lips again. ‘You’re a whole bunch of balloons.’

‘Alright, I’m a bit confused.’

But then Derek was kissing him again, and Stiles forgot all about balloons and how hungry he was. Derek had decided he deserved a second chance, with Stiles. Who knew ghost stories had happy endings?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://coulsonsangels.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/coulsonsangels/), come say hi :)


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